


they made a statue of us, and then put it on a mountain top

by notavodkashot



Series: FFXV one shots [22]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Protocol Is The Worst, marriage of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: Noctis wouldn’t marry Prompto, not in a million years, because then Prompto would be saddled with all the horrid protocol that Noctis had been trying to shirk away from since he’d been old enough to understand that all the bits and pieces of his life he loathed could be traced back to it.So this would have to serve, instead.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: FFXV one shots [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/930774
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	they made a statue of us, and then put it on a mountain top

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MathClassWarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/gifts).



> Bit of an AU of an AU, loosely based in the sun is out, the day is new, but what if the sequel went different places and it all worked out without a hitch. ;)

“You’re doing the thing again,” Aranea singsonged, sitting – perched – on the windowsill, looking utterly, completely unruffled and as ever entirely unbothered by protocol.

Noctis winced and realized that, yes, he was, in fact, doing the thing: fiddling with a pen to the point he’d started to warp it around his hand, rather than just simply swirl it like a less refined version of Ignis’ daggers. He carefully put it down on the desk, which of course meant he spent five minutes shifting stuff around until it all looked neat and organized and very… not worked. Right.

He resisted the wholly rational urge to bang his head into the stack of papers he’d been supposed to spend the last half hour signing and which clearly, were not signed yet.

“…Aranea,” the young King began, leaning on the desk with his elbows – in his mind, he heard Ignis _sigh_ , but Ignis was not in the room, probably busy getting the throne room properly pompous for the ceremony. “Is—”

“Don’t,” she replied, hands folded between her legs, holding onto the edge of the windowsill, and her ankles swinging back and forth, almost childishly. “You don’t want me to choose sides on this one, _Your Majesty_.”

Noctis barked a choked laugh and tired to bury it behind his hands.

“Go _away_ ,” he said, in the least commanding voice at his disposal, something almost like a defeated whine, which to be honest, his dad had once told him was the correct tone to address the Marshal of the Crownsguard. Theirs, anyway. They were _like that_. “If I get assassinated before the ceremony, it’ll only help with the nerves.”

Aranea grinned, then sneered, and then sauntered away with only a dramatic hair toss for emphasis, which overall Noctis reckoned meant she was more or less in support of what he was about to commit to.

Right.

Kings married Queens. And Queens married Kings. Specially when it came to the hallowed line of Lucis, with their sacred duty to the Crystal and the fate of the world on their shoulders and such. That was just how it was. It was the kind of _have always been done_ thing that got put down into laws and all. In fairness to Noctis, he’d fulfilled his side of the bargain, what with the very scourge-free world they were currently living on, and had been for years now. Sure, it hadn’t been exactly what the whole portentous prophecy of the gods had announced, but it had worked. No one was really complaining – well, the more devout to the production surrounding the prophecy of the King of Kings were, but Noctis had broadcasted his thoughts on that particular section of the population by the carefully staged paparazzi photo shoot Ignis and Prompto had coordinated for him, where he’d appeared unshaved, mostly un-caffeinated and wearing a t-shirt that read _I became the King of Kings and this lousy T-shirt was the best Bahamut could give me for it_ .

But he was reaching that age where people got _grumpy_ at his pointed lack of a Queen.

To the point Gladio was running out of creative ways to derail potentially uncomfortable Council meetings, all the while reminding Noctis this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, when it came to _shielding_ him from harm.

And of course, Ignis had given him options. Many, many options, actually. Three quarters of which were even legal and almost feasible.

Really, what had convinced him had been a pond-shore chat with his dad – if one could call _the Vesperpool_ a pond, though Lucis’ former monarch did unironically call it his backyard these days, settled as he was to spend the rest of his days fishing and driving Noctis up a wall with pure jealousy – and the fact Prompto had looked at him one morning, lying as long as he was in their bed, not bothering to move at all while Noctis went about the fastidiously long process of dressing up to Ignis’ exacting standards, and offered to wear a dress if it’d make Noctis’ life easier.

Noctis wouldn’t marry Prompto, not in a million years, because then Prompto would be saddled with all the horrid protocol that Noctis had been trying to shirk away from since he’d been old enough to understand that all the bits and pieces of his life he _loathed_ could be traced back to it. Prompto relished in his lack of status and the flagrant disregard for protocol. His older sister had inherited all of Cor’s titles when Cor had retired along with Noctis’ dad. Prompto’s calling was evenly distributed between the saboteur work he did in Noctis’ name – never really under Noctis’ orders, because Prompto was his parents’ son enough to not be susceptible to something so mundane as _orders_ – and the endless reels he developed in the dark room Noctis had had his grandfather’s studio refurbished into.

Prompto was too good to be saddled with Courtly nonsense and Noctis loved him enough to spare him as much as he could.

So this would have to serve, instead.

Prompto chose that moment – the moment Noctis was considering walking out the window just for the drama of it, what with warping making the whole exercise pointless – to slither out of an inconspicuous bit of paneling on the ceiling. Apparently there were a lot more tunnels and secret passages all around the Citadel than Cor had ever taught Noctis, because Prompto kept finding new ones.

“I brought lunch!” Prompto announced proudly, waving a paper bag with grease stains that had Noctis’ mouth watering on reflex. “I thought about being posh and proper and asking the kitchens to bring you something, but we both know Ignis would somehow put a salad in there, and let’s face it, Noct, you don’t deserve that today.”

Noctis stared at him for a few moments before he laughed.

“I love you, you know?” He said, watching Prompto walk up to his desk, resolutely shove a stack of papers out of the way, and then pull out a cheeseburger – no lettuce, no tomatoes, only cheese and extra grease apparently – along some fries.

“Well, that’s good, dude,” Prompto replied, grinning as he proceeded to steal away one of Noctis’ fries. “What with you about to announce that fact loud and clear to the entire freaking country.”

Noctis took a thoughtful bite out of his meal and studied Prompto while he chewed: he always looked like he belonged there, wherever there happened to be, sitting – perching, much like his older sister, which struck Noctis as the sort of intangible that came from growing up together – on a desk or the arm of a chair or a windowsill or the still smoking wreck of one of his pet projects, bright and cheerful like a stolen shard of sunlight. Prompto was the only person in Noctis’ entire world that didn’t come with strings attached. Prompto could have been anything, _done_ anything. He didn’t have traditions to uphold or grand destinies to pay for. But he’d still chosen to stick around and figure out something he could do, to help Noctis. He hadn’t even asked, either! He’d just signed off his life into Noctis’ service, done the training and sworn his vows, and he was nonchalant about the whole thing the same way he was nonchalant about Noctis’ inability to handle spice. It just was, next question, no hesitation.

“I’m just glad one of us isn’t freaking out,” Noctis replied, wiping sauce off his mouth with a thumb, which he then licked, purposefully, because he knew it was distracting and it felt _good_ seeing Prompto look at him that way, and honestly Noctis had earned all the feel-good things he could muster, today. “Bit miffed that it’s you, not gonna lie.”

“Oh no,” Prompto laughed, eyes bright and freckles very visible against the slight blush on his face. “No one is _not_ freaking out, Noct. I’m just sublimating the panic into the thought of all the pranks I’m going to pull once the whole thing is official.” He grinned. “I spent my entire life watching Cor be a dick to your Dad’s Council, you know? Got some big shoes to step in to.”

And that was partly what made this whole idea a bit terrifying. Noctis’ dad had given this particular title to Cor, the very same day he’d married Noctis’ mom, but he hadn’t even _known_ about the historical meaning of the thing, as he’d so bluntly explained. So there was precedent, very immediate precedent, that might make people think he didn’t _mean_ what he was trying to do.

“It’s fine, you know?” Prompto said, leaning in across the desk to kiss the corner of Noctis’ mouth, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and it _was_ , he’d just been doing that for years now, but it hit differently, today. “If everything else fails, we just elope, dude. It’s fine.”

“Where would we even go?” Noctis asked, instead of being sensible and pointing out that no, they couldn’t – and wouldn’t, not with the weight of responsibilities they both were too committed to abandon, no matter what – because he was still trying to not freak out about it and then very much freaking out about it. “If we eloped, I mean.”

“D’uh, Altissia, of course!” Prompto laughed, following along like it was nothing, like it was just another day of chatting about in Noctis’ office because he always knew when to drop by and distract Noctis from the work he was already not doing because he was bored. “Everyone knows that if you elope you go to Altissia. It’s the most romantic city in the world!”

“Bit too obvious for us though, isn’t it?” Noctis asked, eyebrows arched.

“See, that’s where the mind games come in, this being you and this being me, no one would think we’d actually do it. Too obvious, you know?” Prompto grinned, and Noctis basked in it, like the three dozen cats scattered around the Citadel liked to do, in the various sunbeams they’d claimed as their own. No, he didn’t have a cat problem, and he was sticking to his guns that it was good for PR. “No one would think to look for us there, at least not for a while.”

“That sounds lovely just about now,” Noctis said, leaning over the desk to rest his chin on his hands, elbows firmly planted on the wood, despite the ghost of Ignis’ disapproval echoing somewhere in the back of his head.

“Say the word, Your Majesty,” Prompto replied, leaning in until they were almost kissing again. “And I’ll do my thing.”

“I—”

Gladio chose that moment to barge in, throwing the double doors of Noctis’ studio wide open as he strolled into the room already wearing the ridiculously pompous Council robes, with all their shiny, dangly bits.

“Oh good,” he said, ignoring Noctis’ bewildered squawk and Prompto’s reflexive flailing, despite the fact the latter involved guns materializing out of the void into his hands. “At least you’re not fucking on the desk again.”

Prompto choked on a witch-like cackle, dismissing his weapons back into crystals and nearly rolling off his perch as he laughed, while Noctis was busy spluttering and feeling his face burn.

“Shut _up_ , Gladio,” he snarled without any real bite, “it was _the one time_.”

“And that was one time too many, _Your Bratjesty_ ,” Gladio retorted back, unrepentant. “You need to go get dressed,” he said, pointing an imperious finger at Prompto. “And you,” he added, turning his unamused stare at his King, “need to get Ignis out of that throne room before he starts skinning your Council alive.” He paused. “And not metaphorically, this time.”

“Well, you know Specs,” Prompto chirped in, grinning in the face of Gladio’s glare. “He likes trimming off the fat of things.”

“Away with you,” Gladio said, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes, Your Shieldship,” Prompto replied, grinning – he was always grinning, and it always made Noctis grin back on reflex, and gods, _gods_ , he loved him so, it hurt sometimes – before he saluted Noctis with overdone dramatics. “Your Majesty.”

And then he sauntered away, just like that.

“Noct,” Gladio said, after a moment, snapping Noctis back to reality. He sighed. “It’s going to be okay.”

Despite it all, Noctis was starting to believe it.

* * *

Prompto Argentum, childhood friend and favored companion of the King of Light, King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, was named Voice of the King on the third year of his reign.

Some speculated that this was merely a continuation of a new family tradition, as Cor Leonis, one of Prompto Argentum’s fathers, had held a similar title for the entirety of the reign of his Majesty’s predecessor, King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII, often called the Stalwart King.

They were wrong.


End file.
